


Always Ready For A War Again

by spockandawe



Series: For The Life, For The Day, For The Hours [5]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Erik Killmonger Lives, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Canon, Rehabilitation, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Things are chill for a few days. Maybe not good, but chill is something. The Wakandans keep right on avoiding you, and you do a good job of avoiding the Avengers, without ever having tolooklike you’re avoiding them, which is what really counts. You manage to hit up the library a time or two without company, and find some of the other public spaces they’ve got tucked away up near the official guest quarters. There’s some general rooms, what looks to be a straight-up movie theater (small, but still), a gym, all that kind of stuff.You don’t go exploring too thoroughly, because you don’t really need to get cornered into another awkward conversation right now, thanks. You nod to Wilson once or twice in passing, and once when you came up late at night, you think you and the Scarlet Witch saw each other from opposite ends of the hall, but you kept right on walking without pausing to make sure. Plenty of time to keep exploring andmaybeconsider socializing once you start to go a little more stir-crazy, but for the moment you’re sick of letting other people dictate the pace of things.





	Always Ready For A War Again

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172746565346/always-ready-for-a-war-again-spockandawe-black)

Things are chill for a few days. Maybe not good, but chill is something. The Wakandans keep right on avoiding you, and you do a good job of avoiding the Avengers, without ever having to _look_ like you’re avoiding them, which is what really counts. You manage to hit up the library a time or two without company, and find some of the other public spaces they’ve got tucked away up near the official guest quarters. There’s some general rooms, what looks to be a straight-up movie theater (small, but still), a gym, all that kind of stuff.

You don’t go exploring too thoroughly, because you don’t really need to get cornered into another awkward conversation right now, thanks. You nod to Wilson once or twice in passing, and once when you came up late at night, you think you and the Scarlet Witch saw each other from opposite ends of the hall, but you kept right on walking without pausing to make sure. Plenty of time to keep exploring and _maybe_ consider socializing once you start to go a little more stir-crazy, but for the moment you’re sick of letting other people dictate the pace of things.

Shuri messages you every so often, and you’re not sure why she’s made you one of her pet projects, but what the hell, you’re not busy and it helps break up the time. And better her than the rest of your family. You guess you make a decent resource for questions about America and an even better audience for complaints— though a lot of complaints are about air traffic regulations, and you don’t know what she expects _you_ to know about that, but hey.

Besides, having regular contact means it’s easy to nudge her when you have questions about your kimoyo beads, or just questions about _anything_ here, because you might have net access, but it’s not like the net is rich on resources for what Wakandan life is like.

Right now, you specifically want to know about reading glasses. You left yours behind in South Korea with the rest of your non-critical shit, because surprisingly, you weren’t expecting to spend your days in Wakanda reading through piles of old school sci fi and fantasy books.

 _She’s_ trying to tell you that Wakanda does surgical vision correction, which, sure, but not the question you actually asked, princess. You’re walking back from the library to your room with another armful of books and working out how to text her one-handed on the projected screen. She’s getting worked up over how correction is _better_ than glasses and you’re starting to grin over how bad she doesn’t want to answer your question, and it all works out that you’re distracted enough you don’t spot the queen mother of Wakanda hovering outside your door until you’re too close to turn around and leave.

You at least slow down for the last little bit of hallway, taking a moment to look over her and the two Dora Milaje staring you down from over her shoulders. Sloppy. Sloppy and careless, and you’re annoyed at yourself for dropping some of your self-control just because you were _distracted._

But you’re plenty annoyed at her too. She’s here now. Why now? Not like she’s been back and forth all over the globe like your cousins. Far as you can tell, she’s been right here in the country this whole time. And she didn’t send you a message, and she didn’t actually knock at your door, or you would have gotten an alert from your beads.

You don’t glance down at your bracelet, but the connection is pretty obvious to you. Futuristic ankle monitor is goddamn _right._ She’s here like this because if she arrives when you’re out, it means not having to ask for permission to come in, not putting the control in _your_ hands to turn her away. Not that you expect your ‘no’ to matter to anybody in this country, but it weakens the image of power and control if she has to override you. Better to take that option away from you in the first place.

It’s not a bad move, and you can almost respect that kind of maneuvering. But some point of you is disappointed. When they’ve already got you at such an extreme disadvantage, you’d wanted to expect _better_ from Wakanda.

That’s not fair, you know that if you’d won that last fight, you’d be angling for every bit of control you could get. You still feel disappointed.

Now— What to call her? Without an American background, you don’t know how she’s taking ‘auntie.’ Like hell you’re calling her ‘your majesty’ or ‘Aunt Ramonda’. You settle on avoiding it all together, look her up and down, as unawed and unconcerned as you can project. You ask, “You been helped?”

The Dora Milaje aren’t unprofessional enough to frown, and you’re not unprofessional enough to openly watch them for reactions, but you can practically feel their expressions getting even stonier. The queen is just as icy as either of them, and you let yourself grin again, this time in hopes it’ll piss them all off.

“Nephew,” she says.

Now that’s a nice bit of dodging. Not calling you by a name that acknowledges your birthright, not calling you by a name that labels you an outsider. Not calling you _any_ name that lets you correct her— though she is acknowledging the connection between you, which is a step up from her plain calling you a liar. Probably means she _wants_ something, though you’ve got no idea what she’d be after that you could give her. Maybe she just wants to lord it over you that you’re a glorified prisoner.

Fine, color you interested. Whatever’s going on here, she’s no kid, and she’s no hero or old— old friend. She stood by your uncle his whole life, through everything he did, and if she wants to pick a fight, that suits you just _fine._

Though first, you send Shuri one last message, ask her, _‘Is your mom supposed to be coming to visit?’_ That gets you a flurry of messages, and an attempted video call that you dismiss without answering. You see the queen’s bracelet flashing an alert too, but she ignores it.

You lean up against the wall, not taking your eyes off her. You’re not going to shoulder through them to get to your room, and you’re also not going to give those bodyguards any convenient excuse to get aggressive with you. And you’re sure as _hell_ not going to invite her in.

She watches you for a moment, still cold as ice, but you’d be willing to bet you can outwait her. Not like you have anything else keeping you busy right now.

Finally, she says, “What are your plans for the future?”

Nice and blunt. And also, fuck you, that conversation isn’t happening right now. You nod down at your armful of books. “Reading.”

There’s a flicker of annoyance across her face. “Beyond that. Weeks, months. What do you plan to do here, in Wakanda?”

You scratch your chin, thinking through your options. But— whatever. You can’t figure this out for yourself, you’re sure not planning to put in that effort for _her._ You shrug with one shoulder. “Dunno.

She frowns. “Your goals,” she presses. “What do you desire?”

You just glance down at the books you’re carrying again. “Reading time, I guess.”

 _“Past_ that,” she snaps.

All you do is shrug. And you won’t even lie, you’re kind of enjoying yourself right now.

Your aunt looks at you intently for a moment longer and then glances away. The frown smooths away and her voice is cold and formal again when she says, “You tried to kill my children and start a war. Now that those options have been taken from you, I wish to know what you _will_ do.”

“Go ahead, wish away.”

“Have you given up on those ambitions? Will you give me your word that you will not challenge for the throne again, or offer harm to my children?”

The way she puts that makes you want to try again. Take T’Challa out, cut the royal family out of the picture, install yourself in charge and take on the world. You know you won’t do it. You want to, but you… can’t. The prospect of even beginning to plan that is exhausting. It shouldn’t be that hard, shouldn’t be much worse than what you already did, but you think you must’ve only had one of those tries in you, and now you’re all burned out and used up.

Though a part of you can’t help noticing that apparently you’re still eligible to challenge for the throne, even without having to argue your way into the royal lineup. _That’s_ an interesting piece of information. You don’t know what you’ll do with it, but you tuck it away for later.

For now, all you do is shrug and grin, schooling your face into something as careless and unconcerned as you can manage.

She keeps her cool, but you can tell you’re annoying her. Good. You’re perfectly fine with that. The Dora Milaje shift minutely behind her, and you sure hope you’re bothering all of them. You don’t give a single fuck about making anyone here happy.

Your aunt says, “It would be in your best interests to cooperate with those who chose to spare and house you.”

“Pretty sure you don’t enter anywhere into that picture.” You push yourself off the wall, standing upright again. “Pretty sure your son is the one calling the shots here, not you. Pretty sure _he’s_ the one who was actually involved with derailing my old plans, and he’s the one who set up my accommodations here.” You’re guessing, but it’s not that hard to guess which one of the family’s the biggest bleeding heart, and he’s the one sitting on the throne and making those calls. “I told my cousin to just let me die, and yet here we are, promise I’m not any happier about it than you.”

Her face says that she has real doubts about that, and you have to suppress the urge to smile.

Out loud, your aunt says, “My son only saved you once. If that’s what you desire, why give up so easily?”

Now you’re grinning. You don’t even mind. She’s _cold,_ cold and sharp as hell. It’s almost enough to make you want to like her. You shrug and say, “Your daughter made me promise I wouldn’t go wandering off any cliffs, sorry to disappoint.”

Her mouth twitches, just barely. Your gut twists uneasily. You— don’t want this to be a friendly conversation. You don’t want this to slide into something casual and pleasant, like nothing is wrong and you’re just one big happy family.

Then she says, “Tell me about N’Jobu.”

All that uncertainty and unease gets drowned out in a dizzying rush of anger. You take a half step towards the queen before you can think it through, and the Dora Milaje shift behind her, their eyes on you and their hands on their spears. You stop and take a long, slow breath.

“No,” you say.

She’s unmoved and lifts her chin slightly, her eyes still intent on you. “He was my brother.”

 _He was my father,_ you don’t say. You’re not giving her that. “Pretty sure you don’t get to play that card after your husband murders him.” Your voice sounds distant to your own ears.

“I knew nothing of this until your arrival. Will you hold me responsible for crimes I had no part in?”

 _Yes._ But you don’t say anything.

After a moment, she continues, “I have mourned him as a brother for over twenty years. I’ve held him as dear as a brother since he was fourteen. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” you sneer.

Your aunt isn’t backing down, and doesn’t look that impressed either. Well too bad for her, you’ve got zero reasons to cooperate with her and plenty of motivation to keep your mouth tight shut.

There’s an uncomfortable silence while she simply watches you. Then she says, “Tell me about your mother.”

_“Fuck you.”_

You clamp your lips tight shut, not to, to be polite or avoid offending her or whatever shit. But you’re not talking about your mom with her. No. Fuck that. Absolutely not. You feel a momentary urge to say she died of cancer and she’d be fine if Wakanda hadn’t shut your family out and she could have gotten treatment— And then you feel sick, because that’s not true, it’s not at all true, and you’re not going to lie about your mom to score points in an argument here. It wasn’t cancer, it was a car accident, just a stupid, pointless car accident while you were off at college, and she was gone before emergency services even made it to the scene.

The queen just watches you, cool and level and not even giving you the courtesy of glancing away, and you hate her so much you can’t breathe. After a moment, she says, “I joined the Dora Milaje as a girl and met N’Jobu when he was a boy of eleven. I watched him grow into manhood and loved him as a brother even before he was my brother by marriage.” Now, finally, she looks away from you. “I knew little of him while he was in America. I wish to know more of how he lived. And the legacy he left behind.”

You manage to find your words. “You’re gonna order me to tell you about _this,_ even though your husband’s the one who went and murdered him.”

She turns to you again, calm and unflinching. “Even so.”

You feel cornered, even with the open hallway stretching out behind you. The queen and her bodyguards are still between you and your door. But it doesn’t matter, you’re not going to run and hide from her, fuck that. And you’re not giving her what she wants either. She isn’t entitled to _shit,_ and you’re not going to give her what she wants just because she’s got the nerve to demand it.

So you scrape together everything you can of your anger and sneer. “Guess you should’ve asked Uncle James about it while you had the chance. Or what was his real name? Zuri?”

Her expression clouds again, with plenty of anger, but also with grief. _Good._ She says, “You call him uncle, and yet you still—”

“As far as I’m concerned, my uncle died the same night my dad did!” Your teeth are bared and you’re breathing too hard and you fight to pull yourself back under control. “I came home to one body and I never saw Uncle James again. If Wakanda was going to leave a prince bleeding out on the ground, what kind of treatment would they give an American nobody from the wrong side of town?”

Your aunt is frowning at you, but she says nothing.

You force a laugh. “‘Course, I show up here, and there’s my dead uncle, living in the lap of luxury and telling me that _he’s_ to blame for my dad dying. So go right ahead, go on and tell me I should feel bad about that. I want to see you _try.”_

The queen is already opening her mouth and a part of you is already shriveling, you don’t even know what else she’s going to demand from you, and you’re exhausted enough as it is. You’re not going to just fold and give her whatever she wants, but you wish you could just lie down on the ground and sleep for a couple months.

But from down the hall behind you, you hear a shouted, _“Mother!!”_

You turn, and it’s easy enough to recognize Shuri, even from this distance. When you glance down at your beads, they’re glowing in a pattern that you think means a number of missed— messages? Maybe calls. Or all of the above, probably. Shuri is storming closer, and she’s not looking at you, just the queen. So you go right ahead and take the opportunity to slip around the Dora Milaje and get back into your own goddamn room.

There’s already a loud argument in Xhosa happening behind you by the time you get inside, and maybe they still don’t know how fluent you are, and you really _ought_ to eavesdrop— But you can’t. You just can’t. You’re done with dealing with this, you’re going to lock yourself in your room and get a little peace and quiet and find some way to distract yourself until you feel like you’re on an even keel again.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, Shuri pings your door, asking for access. You usually make the time to talk to her when she gets ahold of you. Not like you have much else to fill out your schedule. But today, you just ignore her until the alert dismisses itself. She doesn’t hit you up with any more messages or calls, which is at least something.

You don’t hear anything more for a couple hours. You manage a hard enough workout to stop your mind racing quite so fast and tire yourself out a little. You could go up to the gym near where the Avengers are staying, but— No. Not giving your aunt the chance to corner you again today, and definitely avoiding any run-ins with other people. You make do with what open space you’ve got in your room, then take a nice hot shower, just standing against the wall under the water with your eyes shut, basking in the heat.

You’ve just finished getting dressed and started eyeing your stack of new books when the door pings you again. All the tension rushes back for a moment, but there’s no video feed that pops up of the person waiting outside your door. Just an alert. Okay, you’ll bite. You open the door, ready to shut it right in the face of anyone who might be trying to sneak past the alert system, but there’s nobody in the hallway, just a small box sitting on the floor.

When you open it up, the box has a selection of reading glasses of various strengths. There’s a little note inside that says _‘These are so primitive I had to fabricate them from scratch’._ It’s not an apology in so many words, but you get it. A big part of you isn’t sure how to react to a Wakandan apologizing to you for something after— everything. But you get it.

You don’t let yourself overthink it, just send Shuri a message that says, ‘ _We’re cool’._ Not a word about the queen. You’re not going to say anything you don’t mean, and you don’t especially want to share everything you _are_ feeling about your aunt right now. But you and your cousin? You’re fine.

While you test the glasses, you get a couple messages about how the microsurgery for your eyes would have taken less time than making the glasses in the first place. You ignore them for the moment, wait until you’ve found the glasses you want, and prod at the kimoyo bead voice commands until you’ve figured out how to take a selfie. You send that off to Shuri without any further comment, and then grin over her exasperated replies as you pick out a book, relax in your chair, and settle down to read.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172746565346/always-ready-for-a-war-again-spockandawe-black)


End file.
